"Will you dine with me?" Lensky asks, as he gets out.
"If you will permit me," replies Nikolai.
"Only no such formalities!" bursts out the violinist. "Do not force yourself to anything from politeness. You must not, if you do not wish. The company which you will find with me will not suit you without that."
Lensky says that quite roughly and angrily. In general, the opposing manners of the two men are strange enough. At heart they evidently cling to each other very greatly; still, a perceptible lack of confidence is apparent in the relations between father and son.
"And at what hour may I come?" asks Nikolai.
"May I come!" his father mimics him. "That is really not to be borne. Leave me in peace with your aristocratic manners. Do not forget that you have a proletary for a father. My guests come at half-past eight, and you can come when you will."
With that they have reached the first story of the hotel, where are the violinist's secluded rooms.
Nikolai's room is one story higher. "For, near each other, we would mutually annoy each other," the virtuoso has from the beginning signified to his son. "Adieu à tantôt," he calls to the young man. With that they separate.
When Nikolai joins Lensky, half an hour later, they are already at table.
The atmosphere of the little dining-room is filled with the savory odor of potage bisque, the virtuoso's favorite dish. Gay dishes of dessert stand on the table, the chandelier sheds its glaring light over an extremely mixed assembly. At Lensky's right sits Madame Grévin, a very old friend of his; at his left, the Countess d'Olbreuse, who, probably to accentuate the situation, has kept on her hat. This great lady, in the rôle of guest in artistic circles, is in some manner annoying to Nikolai. He feels especially constrained, seems to himself awkward in his pedantically correct clothes; he wears a dress-coat and white cravat, because after dinner he is going into society--laughable. The place opposite his father has been left vacant for him. His eyes wander over the guests. He sees a strikingly dressed young harpist, with loud, noisy manners and bold expressions, Mademoiselle Klein, from Vienna; then a violin virtuoso of good family, Monsieur Paul, not without intelligence and wit, but without belief in his art, which he seems to consider a moderately remunerative trade; a vain French journalist with pretentious cynicism--no single artist of really significant renown; and in the midst of all this unenlivening gang--his father.